


Tender

by ameliaisland



Category: La Cité des Enfants Perdus | The City of Lost Children (1995)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:20:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26019439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliaisland/pseuds/ameliaisland
Summary: Her eye blackens a day later.
Relationships: Miette/One (City of Lost Children)
Kudos: 4





	Tender

Her eye blackens a day later. The socket swells, the lid wilts, and the broken blood vessels darken like a funeral rose in bloom.

In the evening, after the rest of the children have gone to sleep, she sits in the kitchen, and One comes to her. He kneels at her feet like a hound forlorn before its master… and like a prince, Miette reflects, in a fairytale book, although she has never seen such a book for herself. He bows the great copper crown of his head, and a massive hand cradles her calf. His thumb sweeps idly across a bruise there. She knows it is not the one he's thinking of.

"One," she asks, "what is wrong?" She knows what is wrong. He had stared at her all evening and turned his head aside, chastened, every time she made it obvious she caught him.

One appears to grapple with words. It is not his usual struggle, his careful parsing of an already limited vocabulary to convey what he is thinking. Past the bent profile of his head she watches his Adam's apple bob, like a harbor fisherman's lure, as he works his throat to speak. One does not speak. She wonders if he cannot. His thumb continues to stroke the blemish below her knee.

Then One lifts his other hand. Instinct tells her to draw back, quick, but she does not. This, above all others, is her bravest moment—for she knows to flinch now is to lose him, lose _them,_ forever to the sorrows of the past. The hand glides through her matted hair and grips it at its roots. Points of pain spark in her scalp like stars. He holds her, ferociously, as the Octopus holds diamonds in her greedy fists—but no, that isn't right, either. One holds her as if she is infinitely more precious, something Miette could not at a glance easily price the worth of. But she knows it is a rare thing in the world, without peer. Perhaps it is the only thing.

"Miette will stay with One," he says. "Even after…?"

Her hand flutters bird-like to join with his; it guides him to her eye, and to the edge of her mouth. His own hand is so vast it could close over her entire face, and she could peer out at the world between his split fingers as if wearing a mask. But for now, she only wants the half-mask. One raises his head, and his expression crumples.

"I've had worse bruises," she says. It is not a lie, not even to comfort.

"Miette will have no more," he vows. His eyes are wet, and his thin upper lip retracts above his teeth. His hand, no longer shy, cups her face as if it is the shell of a precious egg entrusted to him. Miette imagines it's what a pillow feels like.

"We'll see." She does not think a life can be bruise-free, not for one such as her. She does not know if this man as tall as a gas-fired streetlamp, who breaks chains as if they are cobwebs and breathes like a radiator, can protect her from his own strength even if she tiptoes. But having finally known a loving touch, Miette does know she would rather die tomorrow than forgo it ever again.

One rises up on his knees and wraps her in his arms. Miette hangs ragdoll-limp, giving herself over to the embrace as she always has, still uncertain of how to return it… but learning.

"Miette will have no more," he vows.


End file.
